Arkham Knight
by Threehandluke
Summary: After some dimensional weirdness, Moon Knight finds himself in Arkham Asylum. It's a place that fits him all too well.
1. Chapter 1

Arkham Knight

By Kris Rasmussen

Chapter 1

A celestial silver sickle hung over the infamous gothic structure, not so much lighting the night as it was drawing all the light in. The heavenly body was so bright it distracted the eye, making the features beneath it somewhat indistinguishable. The Victorian building is the oldest structure still standing in Gotham City. Five stories tall, with multiple out-buildings and a few towers, it was also the largest for most of the city's history. Its final resident was a wealthy doctor who, after his wife was brutally murdered by a madman, turned his ancient family home into a facility dedicated to the research, understanding, and treatment of extreme forms of insanity. After thirty years of failure, Amadeus Arkham took his own life in a fit of depression. The haunted structure still carries his name.

Arkham Asylum was a structure with a long and storied history. It has contained some of the greatest minds in the field of aberrant psychology, both in terms of researchers and patients. Countless years and dollars had been fed into the machinery of Arkham in the hopes of understanding and curing the most severe and unique forms of madness the world had ever seen. Yet despite all the money and skill and manpower and brilliance Arkham was known primarily for its failures. Its inability to rehabilitate its most infamous inmates is the first thing on any mind that spends but a moment contemplating the very word. Therefore Arkham Asylum was, primarily, a place to put those beyond redemption. Those deemed too insane or dangerous to be allowed to mingle with the common murderers, rapists, and white collar criminals residing in Blackgate. It was a place to put lunatics. Tonight, a new lunatic was admitted into Arkham.

"Wake up Bub. You been out a while." The gruff voice sounded like a logger who gargled rocks and smoked cigars. It wasn't far off from the truth.

"Man, that Bat-guy cleaned your clock." This voice was younger, friendly. A college kid messing with a buddy. "Can't believe I've never heard of him. But you did kinda' deserve it."

"Stow it, this isn't the time." This voice was firm and commanding. It was an easy voice to listen to. "Get ready soldier, someone's coming."

The thunk of a large bolt and scrape of old steel announced the opening of a heavily secured door. Bright flashes and pops hurt the madman's eyes as he opened them, a combination of concussion and morphine fuzzing his vision. Nearby was the steady beep and hiss of hospital machinery. Parts of his body were in a cast, and a few weak tugs informed him that he was restrained. This would be easily remedied if it weren't for the infernal fluff dulling his senses and slowing his brain.

Two figures, one thin and the other large entered the room, stepping before the three figures already with him. "Well mister Doe, it was quite some trouble getting you situated here. Even under sedation you broke mister Doughtrie's jaw. You may wish to avoid him in the future." His eyelids were pulled open in a clinical fashion, and a light was shined upon his pupils. His pulse and several other factors were checked as the thin man, presumably a doctor, continued speaking. "My name is Doctor Cavendish and this is a preliminary interview, just to get a few registration details settled. How many fingers and I holding up?"

"Two."

"And now?"

"Three."

There was a scritch of pen on paper. "Excellent, Mister Doe, you're recovering very quickly. Can you tell me where the Statue of Liberty is?"

'Ellis Island. New York."

More scritching. "Goood, good. Now who is president right now?"

"Barak Obama."

The scritching stopped. "Excuse me sir, but could you please repeat that?"

Was that wrong? The man on the bed had voted for him, even shaken his hand at a fundraiser. The President had talked about his show. The girls wanted to watch it but he didn't think they were old enough. "Barak Obama."

"Ouch," said the young man "not the answer four-eyes wanted." His red garbed head tilted to one side, as web streaked hands rose to scratch his ear.

"Well," said Doctor Cavendish, "let's just move on. You were found with a variety of interesting items which, unfortunately did not include any form of identification. Would you mind telling me your name?"

The man on the bed glanced at the three who'd arrived with him, a questioning look in his eyes. The tall one with the blue chainmail and stars on his chest said "Go ahead, son. They've seen you without the mask, so it's only a matter of time."

"Marc Spector." It was an admission he'd been hoping to avoid. After years he'd finally gotten his life together. He had the funding to pursue his purpose and made peace with his demons. He was back on track. But now the show will be canceled and he will be broke again. Worse, he'll be out. Still, he'd come back from worse, and the old soldier always gave good advice.

"Excellent, Mister Spector. I noted your hesitation there, and I would just like to alleviate some of your concerns. We here at Arkham Asylum pride ourselves on confidentiality."

"He's lying," said the short, stubby one. The brief hiss of rapid steel on steel punctuated the statement. "I can smell it."

Oblivious of the commentary, the doctor droned on. "Any personal details revealed during your stay here shall remain in the strictest confidence. We're here to help you, Mister Spector. Once you're fully healed, I'll have some paperwork…"

"Wait," interrupted Spector "Where am I, again?" It was a heavy question. Heavier than anyone in the room realized.

Doctor Cavendish started at Marc Spector for a brief moment. He'd dealt with all kinds of mental infirmity but had trouble believing anyone who had spent the last few nights running around in a moon-themed costume had never heard on this place. "This is the Elizibeth Arkham Asylum for the Criminally insane, just on the outskirts of Gotham city."

Spector's eyes went wide. He'd traveled the world and never heard of a Gotham City. A quick glance at his companions revealed they were as lost as he.

The doctor studied Marc's reaction. The drugs kept his face honest, if a bit sluggish. This man had no idea where he was, and what was he looking at? Clearly he was deeply disturbed. Cavendish repressed a sigh, hoping this poor man did not become one of Arkham's many revolving door costumes. "Well, I think that's everything I need for now. Welcome to Arkham, Mister Spector. I hope your stay here is…helpful."

With that, the skinny doctor turned. The man who'd followed him, a man with carefully sculpted muscles and a face made of bricks waited for the doctor to leave and leaned over Marc. A voice like a stuttering mac truck said "Jim was a friend of mine 'Moon Knight'. Gonna' be a reckoning." The thug reached up and stabbed Marc in the solar plexus with a sausage finger, then walked out of the room laughing. As the steel door slammed on its occupants, the short old guy said "Lookin' forward to it."


	2. Chapter 2

Arkham Knight

Chapter 2

Arkham was not a quiet place at night. Over the months of recovery the rhythmic beep and hiss of medical equipment was accompanied by footsteps in the corridor, the rattle of chains, the scrape of steel doors, muttered conversations, distant chanting, and the occasional high pitched laugh that echoed throughout the facility. The second week Marc could hear the roar of something massive and automatic gunfire. Panic and violence filled the corridor and despite the morphine and shackles his every muscle tensed at the call to action. Lives were lost, blood was spilled and he was trapped as an invalid while the drama played itself out. He had never been so helpless.

That laugh pierced the soul and haunted Marc Spector's dreams. A terrible place to begin with, his dreamscape had become a drug induced montage of misery, failure, horror and vengeance. Werewolves and vampires blending with dark sorcerers and mass murderers, friends and allies lost for simply being near him. Jake Lockley and Steven Grant, two men who were so much a part of him once and now seemed so ludicrously pointless. Maybe they were dead, or maybe they had never existed at all. Two points of fracture in an identity now so hopelessly divided it's hard to tell who he is to begin with. Marlene and Bushman. Khonshu. Then the laughter enters his skull and stirs the pot, confusing things.

"Gotta' make the first move. Hit hard and move on. Be unexpected. That's how we get out."

"We could climb something. No one ever notices me climbing anything."

"Patience. We need to observe and assess before making a decision."

The argument stayed essentially the same over the course of his recovery. Old man said attack, soldier said strategize, and the young one thought sideways, as always. They were the touchstones of his new life. Paragons he idolized had become the identities he assumed in his quest, but none of them could get him out of the cast and all of their planning was moot until then. As time passed he was weaned off the morphine, the casts disappeared, and the maddening beep-hiss of machinery vanished, leaving him free to move within his cell. During his physical recovery, his occasional companion was Dr. Schaulk, a small, patient man with a voice like a gentle rain and eyes that had once been kind. "Come ON, Mooney! Guy's name is Shock! He's gonna' put you on the chair if he gets a look inside your head. Though you might get electric superpowers. Dumber things have happened." Arguing with the young one seemed pointless.

"Well Mister Spector," the doctor said in the voice of a patient Grandfather. "It's been two days since you've been up and about. How are you enjoying the accommodations?"

"Chin Nah hold on the trachea. Use him as a hostage. Best way out." After a brief assessment Marc decided against that course of action.

"Had worse, actually. Food could be better, but I'd really like to stretch my legs, doc." Spector's eyes drifted up to the steel door, and the man between them. It was mister Kearny, who was apparently his permanent babysitter. The over-muscled lunk had taken every available opportunity to abuse him while he'd been helpless. His every entrance had resulted in the old man growling and the soldier calling for patience. Held in his hands was a cloth wrapped bundle. "Can only do so many push-ups, you know?"

"While I'm glad to hear you're motivated to begin your physical therapy we have experts here who can provide you with an appropriate regimen. Don't want to push yourself too hard too fast, eh?"

"Sure thing, Doc." Too hard, too fast? That was practically his mantra.

"Now today you'll get to stretch those legs. We'll be taking you to see your physical therapist Doctor Proctor. In addition to our regular sessions here, you'll be seeing him twice a week. If you can behave appropriately during your treatment, there is a Rec room you can use, as well as a gym and a library. However, due to the circumstances of your arrival, policy requires us to take certain precautions." The small Doctor gestured to Kearny, who unwrapped the cloth bundle to reveal a set of manacles and leg hobbles, strung together with chain. "I do apologize, but until you prove we can trust you, they will be necessary. Will you allow yourself to be restrained?" The gentle tilt at the end of the question made it clear that if he said no, there were orderlies in the hallway with syringes who would get him into the rig anyway.

"Chains are good. Extend your reach. Perfect for a hostage."

"For God's sake, man, we aren't taking an innocent man hostage! All he wants is what's best for Marc!

"Keep dreamin', soldier boy!"

"Can I also vote for not choking out the doctor? He reminds me a lot of George Burns…just a suggestion."

The argument made it hard to concentrate. A glance at the doctor made him realize he'd been staring at his companions and the air was getting tense. The doctor was frowning, waiting for a reply. "Okay, doctor. I suppose that's fair, for now." He put his wrists together and extended them towards Kearny. Schaulk couldn't help but break out into a relieved smile as his gorilla lumbered forward and secured his patient. Maybe this one wouldn't give him so much trouble. Maybe.

The manacles on his wrist had about three inches of chain between them. Leg hobbles had about a foot and a half, restricting his ability to move, but not making it impossible. Three and one half feet connected the two, restricting his wrists to about waist level. Stomach level if he held his feet together. It wouldn't be comfortable, but at least he was leaving his cell.

The hallway was arguably more oppressive than his cell. Rows of steel doors were set into bleak concrete walls with cracks and fissures and curious stains. Standing outside the door were two more beefy orderlies, one of whom had his jaw wired shut. Marc couldn't help but shoot him a slight grin as the doctor dismissed the two new meat-chunk boys and the six of them proceeded down the hallway to a secure elevator.

"Nice decor. Real 'Frankenstein meets Martha Stewart' look. Think we could get these guys to help us spruce up the Summer castle?"

Marc smiled. The young man could always make him smile.

The Doctor swiped his ID card over a reader next to the elevator and there was a gentle hum as it descended. "What kind of Asylum has such tight security, doc? I get why I'm in a steel box, but aren't most of your patients basically harmless?" His three friends went silent, curious for an answer to that question themselves. Shaulk gave him a measured look, long experience with the mentally infirm keeping his emotions in check as he carefully pondered how to answer that question. Surely it's not possible he's never heard of this place?

Eleveator doors opened with a gentle DING and two men in full tac armor stood to either side of the entrance. Each had a shotgun and a fiberglass faceplate obscuring their features. The sight jarred Spector from his attempt at idle conversation. Kearny gave him a not-so-gentle push into the elevator that the doctor chose to ignore. As the elevator began to rise the Doctor spoke up. "Arkham Asylum specializes in the study and treatment of the most violently disturbed individuals on Earth. Dangerous manifestations of psychosis are our signature. These walls frequently contain the most lethal, and most brilliant minds that exist. Consequently, security is of great concern."

In the shifting light of the elevator, in the presence of armed guards, the short old man lit up a cigar and said "Alright Flagboy, you win. We'll wait."


End file.
